On Tuesday morning, quiet and distracted and full of apprehen?sion, he and his mother got into her car and drove over the river and through the lush late-summer green of Ohio. It was very hot, the leaves of the corn shimmering against the expansive blue sky. They arrived in Pittsburgh amid returning Fourth of July traf?fic, traveling through the tunnel that opened onto the bridge in a breathtaking view of the two rivers merging. They crawled through downtown traffic and followed the Monongahela, travel?ing through another long tunnel. At last they pulled up at Caroline Gill's brick house on a busy tree-lined street.
She had told them to park in the alley and they did, getting out of the car and stretching. Beyond a strip of grass, steps led down into a narrow lot and the high brick house where his sister had grown up. Paul took the house in, so much like Cincinnati, so different from his own quiet childhood, its suburban ease and comfort. Traffic rushed by on the street, past the little postage-stamp yards, into the city sprawling all around them, hot and dense.
The gardens all along the alley were thick with flowers, holly?hocks and irises in every color, their white and purple tongues vivid against the grass. In this garden a woman was working, tending a row of lush tomato plants. A hedge of lilac bushes grew up behind her, the leaves flashing their pale green undersides in a breeze that pushed the hot air without cooling it. The woman, wearing dark blue shorts and a white T-shirt and bright flowered cotton gloves, sat up from where she was kneeling and ran the back of her hand across her forehead. The traffic rushed; she hadn't heard them coming. She broke a leaf off a tomato plant and pressed it to her nose.
"Is that her?" Paul asked. "Is that the nurse?"
His mother nodded. She had folded her arms tightly, protec?tively, across her chest. Her sunglasses masked her eyes, but even so he could see how nervous she was, how pale and tense.
"Yes. That's Caroline Gill. Paul, now that it's come to it, I'm not sure I can do this. Maybe we should just go home."
"We've driven all this way. And they're expecting us."
She smiled a small tired smile. She'd hardly slept in days; even her lips were pale.
"They can't possibly be expecting us," she said. "Not really."
Paul nodded. The back door swung open, but the figure on the porch was hidden in the shadows. Caroline stood, brushing her hands on her shorts.
"Phoebe," she called. "There you are."
Paul felt his mother grow tense beside him, but he didn't look at her. He looked instead at the porch. The moment stretched out, ex?tended, and the sun pressed down against them. At last the figure emerged, carrying two glasses of water.
He stared hard. She was short, much shorter than he was, and her hair was darker, thinner and more flyaway, cut in a simple bowl shape around her face. She was pale, like his mother, and from this distance her features seemed delicate in a broad face, a face that seemed somewhat flattened, as if it had been pressed too long against a wall. Her eyes were slightly upslanted, her limbs short. She was not a girl anymore, as in the photographs, but grown, his own age, with gray in her hair. A few gray hairs flashed his beard too, when he let it grow. She wore flowered shorts and she was stocky, a little plump, her knees brushing together when she walked.
Oh, his mother said. She had placed one hand on her heart. Her eyes were hidden by the sunglasses, and he was glad; this moment was too private.
"It's okay," he said. "Let's just stand here for a while."
The sun was so hot, and the traffic rushed. Caroline and Phoebe sat side by side on the porch steps, drinking their water.
"I'm ready," his mother said at last, and they went down the steps to the narrow patch of lawn between the vegetables and flowers. Caroline Gill saw them first; she shaded her eyes, squinting against the sun, and stood up. Phoebe stood up too, and for a few seconds they looked at one another across the lawn. Then Caroline took Phoebe's hand in hers. They met by the tomato plants, the heavy fruit already starting to ripen, filling the air with a clean, acrid scent. No one spoke. Phoebe was gazing at Paul, and after a long moment she reached across the space between them and touched his cheek, lightly, gently, as if to see if he was real. Paul nodded without speaking, looking at her gravely; her gesture seemed right to him, somehow. Phoebe wanted to know him, that was all. He wanted to know her too, but he had no idea what to say to her this sudden sister, so intimately connected to him yet such a stranger. He was also terribly self-conscious, afraid of doing the wrong thing. How did you talk to a retarded person? The books he had read over the weekend, all those clinical accounts—none of this had pre?pared him for the real human being whose hand brushed so lightly against his face.
It was Phoebe who recovered first.
"Hello," she said, extending her hand to him formally. Paul took her hand, feeling how small her fingers were, still unable to say a single word. "I'm Phoebe. Pleased to meet you." Her speech was thick, hard to understand. Then she turned to his mother and did this again.
"Hello," his mother said, taking her hand, then clasping it be?tween her own. Her voice was charged with emotion. "Hello, Phoebe. I'm very glad to meet you too."
"It's so hot," Caroline said. "Why don't we go inside? I have the fans on. And Phoebe made iced tea this morning. She's been excited about your visit, haven't you, honey?"
Phoebe smiled and nodded, suddenly shy. They followed her into the coolness of the house. The rooms were small but immacu?late, with beautiful woodwork and French doors opening between the living room and dining room. The living room was full of sun?light and shabby, wine-colored furniture. A massive loom sat in the far corner.
"I'm making a scarf," Phoebe said.
"It's beautiful," his mother said, crossing the room to finger the yarns, dark pink and cream and yellow and pale green. She'd taken off her sunglasses and she looked up, her eyes watery, her voice still charged with emotion. "Did you choose these colors yourself, Phoebe?"
"My favorite colors," Phoebe said.
"Mine too," his mother said. "When I was your age, those were my favorite colors too. My bridesmaids wore dark pink and cream, and they carried yellow roses."
Paul was startled to know this; all the photos he had seen were black-and-white.
"You can have this scarf," Phoebe said, sitting down at the loom. "I'll make it for you."
"Oh," his mother said, and closed her eyes briefly. "Phoebe, that's lovely."
Caroline brought iced tea, and the four of them sat uneasily in the living room, talking awkwardly about the weather, about Pitts?burgh's budding renaissance in the wake of the steel industry col?lapse. Phoebe sat quietly at the loom, moving the shuttle back and forth, looking up now and then when her name was mentioned. Paul kept casting sidelong glances at her. Phoebe's hands were small and plump. She concentrated on the shuttle, biting at her lower lip. At last his mother drained her tea and spoke.
"Well," she said. "Here we are. And I don't know what hap?pens now."
"Phoebe," Caroline said. "Why don't you join us?" Quietly, Phoebe came over and sat next to Caroline on the couch.
His mother began, speaking too quickly, clasping her hands to?gether, nervous. "I don't know what's best. There are no maps for this place we're in, are there? But I want to offer my home to Phoebe. She can come and live with us, if she wants to do that. I've thought about it so much, these last days. It would take a whole life?time to catch up." Here she paused to take a breath, and then she turned to Phoebe, who was looking at her with wide, wary eyes. "You're my daughter, Phoebe, do you understand that? This is Paul, your brother."
Phoebe took hold of Caroline's hand. "This is my mother," she said.
"Yes." Norah glanced at Caroline and tried again. "That's your mother," she said. "But I'm your mother too. You grew in my body,
Phoebe." She patted her stomach. "You grew right here. But then you were born, and your mother Caroline raised you."
"I'm going to marry Robert," Phoebe said. "I don't want to live with you."
Paul, who had watched his mother struggle all weekend, felt Phoebe's words physically, as if she'd kicked him. He saw his mother feel them too.
"It's okay, Phoebe," Caroline said. "No one's going to make you go away."
"I didn't mean—I only wanted to offer—" His mother stopped and took another deep breath. Her eyes were deep green, troubled. She tried again. "Phoebe, Paul and I, we'd like to get to know you. That's all. Please don't be scared of us, okay? What I want to say— what I mean—is that my house is open to you. Always. Wherever I go in the world, you can come there too. And I hope you will. I hope you'll come and visit me someday, that's all. Would that be okay with you?"
"Maybe," Phoebe conceded.
"Phoebe," Caroline said, "Why don't you show Paul around for a while? Give Mrs. Henry and me a chance to talk a little bit. And don't worry, sweetheart," she added, resting her hand lightly on Phoebe's arm. "No one's going anywhere. Everything's okay."
Phoebe nodded and stood up.
"Want to see my room?" she asked Paul. "I got a new record player."
Paul glanced at his mother and she nodded, watching the two of them as they crossed the room together. Paul followed Phoebe up the stairs.
"Who's Robert?" he asked.
"He's my boyfriend. We're getting married. Are you married?"
Paul, pierced with a memory of Michelle, shook his head. "No."
"You have a girlfriend?"
"No. I used to have a girlfriend, but she went away."
Phoebe stopped on the top step and turned. They were eye to eye, so close that Paul felt uncomfortable, his personal space invaded. He glanced away and then looked back, and she was still looking straight at him.
"It's not polite to stare at people," he said.
"Well, you look sad."
"I am sad," he said. "Actually, I'm very, very sad."
She nodded, and for a moment she seemed to have joined him in his sadness, her expression clouding up and then, an instant later, clearing.
"Come on," she said, leading him down the hall. "I got some new records, too."
They sat on the floor of her room. The walls were pink, with pink and white checked curtains at the windows. It was a little girl's room, filled with stuffed animals, bright pictures on the walls. Paul thought of Robert and wondered if it was true that Phoebe would get married. Then he felt bad for wondering this; why shouldn't she get married, or do something else? He thought of the extra bed?room in his parents' house, where his grandmother stayed occasion?ally when he was a boy. That would have been Phoebe's room; she would have filled it with her music and her things. Phoebe put the album on and turned the volume up loud on her little record player, blasting "Love, Love Me Do," singing along to the music with her eyes half shut. She had a nice voice, Paul realized, turning the vol?ume down a bit, flipping through her other albums. She had a lot of popular music but she had symphonies, too.
"I like trombones," she said, pretending to pull a long slide, and when Paul laughed, she laughed too. "I really love trombones." She sighed.
"I play the guitar," he said. "Did you know that?"
She nodded. "My mom said. Like John Lennon."
He smiled. "A little," he said, surprised to find himself in the middle of a conversation. He'd gotten used to her speech, and the more he talked to Phoebe, the more she was simply herself, impos?sible to label. "You ever hear of Andres Segovia?"
"Uh-uh."
"He's really good. He's my favorite. Someday I'll play his music for you, okay?"
"I like you, Paul. You're nice."
He found himself smiling, charmed and flattered. "Thanks," he said. "I like you too."
"But I don't want to live with you."
"That's okay. I don't live with my mother either," he said. "I live in Cincinnati."
Phoebe's face brightened. "All by yourself?"
"Yes," he said, knowing he would go back to find Michelle gone. "All by myself."
"Lucky."
"I suppose," he said gravely, knowing suddenly that he was. The things he took for granted in life were the stuff of Phoebe's dreams. "I'm lucky, yes. It's true."
"I'm lucky too," she said, surprising him. "Robert has a good job, and so do I."
"What's your job?" Paul asked-
"I make copies." She said this with quiet pride. "Lots and lots of copies."
"And you like it?"
She smiled. "Max works there. She's my friend. We have twenty-three different colors of paper."
She hummed a little, content, as she put the first record carefully away and chose another. Her gestures were not fast, but they were efficient and focused. Paul could imagine her at the copy shop, doing her work, joking with her friend, pausing now and then to take pleasure in the rainbow of paper or a finished job. Downstairs he heard the murmur of voices as his mother and Caroline Gill worked out what to do. He realized, with a deep sense of shame, that his pity for Phoebe, like his mother's assumption of her depen?dence, had been foolish and unnecessary. Phoebe liked herself and she liked her life; she was happy. All the striving he had done, all the competitions and awards, the long and futile struggle to both please himself and impress his father—placed next to Phoebe's life, all this seemed a little foolish too.
"Where's your father?" he asked.
"At work. He drives a bus. Do you like Yellow Submarine?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
Phoebe smiled a wide smile and put the album on.
